


Shades

by Duma



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Dark Stiles, Gore, Guilt, Other, POV Isaac Lahey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duma/pseuds/Duma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn't see Stiles' eyes much anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by hayesgeneration's fic, "Poor You and Poor Me." After reading the work, I came to the conclusion that no person can have that kind of trauma and guilt eat away at them for so long and be the same person. This is just six years in the future of that 'verse. It was written pretty quickly, and should take, I don't know, about 3 minutes to read. 
> 
> I would recommend reading hayesgeneration's fic first, though you can probably make do with simply knowing the premise, found in the end notes. 
> 
> This fic contains a dark take on Stiles, and some gore. It is potentially triggering due to violence, and perhaps due to the whom the violence is directed against. Read the end notes for more, though they may contain spoilers.
> 
> Also, the STEREK in this fic is implied. It is not stated explicitly anywhere, and carries the tag mostly based on hayesgeneration's fic being centered around a STEREK relationship.

You didn't see Stiles' eyes much anymore.

You hadn't for awhile, now that Isaac thinks about it. Ever since Stiles graduated from the police academy and began patrolling Beacon Hills ( _“on the regular, man”_ ) he had discovered a penchant for a pair of reflective aviators—black and unassuming, complementing the deep navy of his uniform. It was perfectly ( _“legit”_ ) protocol. They sent their little rods back into his finely combed hair, resting over his ears, looping around, settling their frames over his eyes, like little windows with the curtains drawn. His eyes were hidden. You couldn't see them when his face was in profile, and his finger would come up to the bridge of his nose, as unconsciously and as often as Isaac bit his fingernails, pushing them into place.

Isaac was surprised he was only now just realizing this.

They were in a meeting, the Pack, a few others—allies, and Stiles was talking. Derek had his head in his hands, and Erica was doodling. Boyd was inanimate, for all Isaac knew, and hadn't moved since the meeting began. Scott was whispering back and forth with Allison. Jackson was texting. A webcam broadcasted the entire thing to Danny, who would be taking notes.

“There are three probable parties that could be reasonably suspected of aiding the hunters already here in Beacon Hills.” Stiles shuffled through the papers he had out on the table in front of him. “They are...let me see. Okay. A. The coven Derek and Boyd kicked out back in March. They could be back, I have headcounts on two out of the five known members, so three are still at large. Their motives are easy—revenge. We killed cult leader Maria Bashley and her daughter, Willow, so, yeah. There. B. We have...”

Isaac zoned out. This meeting had taken thirty minutes thus far and would probably last for another two hours, at least. He would tune back in when Stiles decided to finally reveal who he thought was the responsible party, and what they were going to do about them. Meetings had been getting longer.

A breeze blew through the room, hitting Isaac in the face.

Meetings had been getting much longer.

You didn't see the glasses off often, that was sure. Stiles wore them to pack meetings, he wore them to work, he wore them when he walked around his apartment, talking on the phone to Danny. ( _“Why isn't it up, Danny? I spent four hours last night cross referencing phone numbers and today it's down. Goddamnit, Danny. Danny. Listen. I need the database up. Life and death, Danny. Life and death.”_ ) He wore them when he ordered pizza with Scott and when he fired five bullets point blank into Gerard Argent's head.

“Wait.”

That was Derek. Stiles looked attentively up from his papers, mouth closing.

“Stiles. The hunters here in Beacon Hills. How do you know they're getting help from outside? Erica's been following them, and hasn't reported a thing.”

Erica nodded in confirmation, eyes rolling. “They haven't met with anyone outside Beacon Hills for two weeks.”

Stiles shook his head, his pen tapping furiously against the table. Boyd raised an eyebrow pointedly, and the tapping stopped.

“Listen, Derek, Erica, okay. Yeah, they haven't contacted anyone in person outside of Beacon Hills for two weeks, but—but, I planted some police equipment on their truck on Sunday—don't give me that look Derek—and after listening to one of their convo's, I overheard that they're getting wolfsbane—altered wolfsbane—not every hunter has access to that—from quote-unquote 'friends who sympathize with our situation.' That sounds like outside help to me, plus--”

“What? Stiles,” Derek said, brow creasing, “you planted police equipment on the hunters' truck? How do you even get access to that? Are there inventories, something?”

Stiles waved his hand dismissively. “I am the police, Derek. And no, I'm the one who does the inventories. Anyway, back to the conversation--”

The last time Isaac had seen Stiles with his glasses off was when they were running from a rival pack through the woods of Beacon Hills. Stiles had been clawed in the knee and went down, face first, into the ground. Derek had picked him up and ran. Stiles was cursing, yelling into his walkie-talkie, telling the pack to regroup. ( _“I have contingencies for this, guys. I have contingencies. Get back to the subway.”_ ) Isaac wasn't sure why they were regrouping, but as soon as Boyd was hit with a bullet Stiles had freaked. Now they were off through the woods, three bodies left behind them. Stiles' eyes were wide and he was breathing fast. Derek was moving too fast for Isaac to keep up, and soon Isaac could only hear them, a little ways ahead, Derek's steady heartbeat and Stiles' fast one, beating hard, and a repeated litany of ( _“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking shit”_ ). No one had died that day.

Stiles had yelled at Derek when they got to the subway. Erica and Boyd managed to catch up and the betas held back while Stiles paced around the floor, holding his hair. His glasses were in his hand, cracked and broken. ( _“I don't know what went wrong. I don't know what went wrong. God.”_ ) Derek was silent, while Stiles ranted. His eyes fell on Boyd and he waved frantically to the stack of bullets he had reconned from the pack beforehand ( _“Jesus fucking Christ, Boyd, detoxify yourself. Jesus.”_ ) Stiles' eyes had been tired and worn. There were tears coming out of his eyes, and his heart was beating rabbit-fast, like he was still scared. ( _“Jesus. Jesus. Okay. Okay. Who's dead? Alpha—Katerine Michener, Beta—Ben Michener, Beta—William Perkins. Okay. Okay. We got half. Goddamnit!”_ ) Stiles punched the wall. Derek moved to put his hand on Stiles' shoulder and Stiles flinched back, heart picking up. Boyd looked up from Erica's ministrations. Derek stepped back. There was a pause. Stiles resumed talking. ( _“We got half. They don't have alliances. They don't have treaties. They're on their own. We got half, that'll probably send them running. Jesus.”_ )

The other pack left town the next day. Stiles filed their info away into the database and put their names out on a popular hunter internet forum. ( _“Game Enthusiast Web Forum, Isaac. They call themselves 'Game Enthusiasts.'”_ ) Isaac doubted they would be a problem again. Stiles seemed to think so too, fresh glasses back on his face, nodding sagely. ( _“Running never does anyone much good. It's best to just—stay put. Be prepared. Put and prepared.”_ ) Isaac wondered if Stiles' eyes were still tired. He smelled exhausted. Stiles always smelled exhausted.

“If you thought that the coven was the supplier all along, why didn't you just start out with that?” Erica snarked from the couch. She was always restless during these meetings. It had been six years and Isaac didn't think she had forgiven Stiles, either. It made him sad. Six years ago.

Stiles' face shifted towards her. He was probably blinking. “I just wanted to cover all of the possibilities. You know. There are more which I should have probably included—no,” his face turned towards Derek, “I definitely should have included. But. There are a lot of possibilities.” He swallowed. His heart was beating fast. Finger up to the bridge of the nose, push. “The coven is the most probable one though. Lydia corroborates. She read this, uh, before.”

Derek grunted.

Danny's keystrokes were audible through the laptop.

“I, anyway, do not advise negotiations. I really think that we should just end this before it ever begins. These hunters have been here for, what, two weeks? … Thirteen days. They've been here thirteen days and already have weapons out. My bugs caught convo's indicating intents to attack this house,” Stiles gestured around vaguely to the old Hale House, “specifically. I do not advise negotiations.”

Derek shook his head and growled. Erica snorted from the couch, flipping Stiles' report onto the floor.

“And what, Stilinski?” She laughed. “Shoot them through the head in the middle of making a pact, like last time? You're crazy. We're crazy. We're fucking crazy if we think that we should trust him to make sound judgments. You're paranoid.”

Stiles smiled weakly. His mouth smiled. His eyes couldn't smile, they were plastic, and he smelled like shame.

Isaac remembered the last negotiations. ( _“I Stiles Stilinski, member of the Hale Pack, certify that this agreement between Alpha Derek Hale and Hunter James McTrall, and all of their subordinates, respectively, is binding--”_ ) A shot went off. James McTrall's knees hit the ground, blood pouring out of his forehead. He looked surprised. There was an echo in the warehouse, and everyone stopped breathing. Then. Erica was shouting, Boyd was shouting. Derek—looked unsurprised, if a bit disgusted, backing away from the body. Not surprised, though. The other two hunters were fumbling for their guns when Stiles shot them, two shots, each to the head. Dead. ( _“I like to go to the shooting range. It calms me down. Centers me. I can spend hours there. When you're—when you're shooting people in real life. It pays to be prepared. Centered.”_ ) Erica was screeching about being informed, being ready, and Isaac was looking around, eyes wide. Lost. Stiles picked up his phone, ( _“Thanks Chris. I owe you one. Thanks. I know. I know. Yes.”_ ) As nervous as Stiles was at pack meetings, as nervous as he was talking about what he had planned, counter-planned, Plan A, Plan B, Plan C, D, E, F, and each contingency, he was never nervous talking about killing. ( _“When people are good at something, they're rarely nervous about it.”_ ) Finger up to the bridge of the nose, push. Check gun, check bullets. Drop the gun from gloved hands onto the body of one of the hunters. Then call in to the police station to report hearing the sound of gunfire. Finger up to the bridge of the nose, push. Tragic accident.

When Stiles was killing people, he was never nervous. Isaac was the one that was nervous. ( _“I will put a bullet, Isaac, in everone--anyone, that tries to harm you.” Stiles' hands grab his face, lenses knocking against Isaac's forehead as he comes close. His voice is frantic.“Isaac, I will keep you safe. I will keep you safe and I will not regret it. Not now, not later. If people have to die to make sure that you are fine, and that you're alive and you're with the pack, then they will die. And I won't think twice. I won't think at all.”_ )

Derek's palm slaps the table. Isaac snaps out of his reverie. Stiles' papers are set aflutter, pictures of the hunters, their addresses, their phone numbers, their pages on the database. “Enough. Stiles, you did well.” He looks tired.

Stiles doesn't move. He doesn't smile. And he doesn't laugh. He is tired.

“I know I did.”

( _“I know that when you—when you got taken last time. It was my fault. It was my fault.” Stiles' voice is wobbly as he pulls his head away from Isaac's and turns around. They're alone in this little room. Well, almost alone. The hunter—the woman—on the floor moves weakly, like a worm. “I promised not to let it happen again.” Stiles takes a deep breath. Then he aims. He fires twice, once into the lady's chest, once into her throat. This one has to look like a personally motivated homicide. They're going to pin it on her husband. Blood pours out through her gag, coloring the cloth and pooling onto her shirt, down her shirt, and onto the floor. Her throat is convulsing. Stiles said she had kids. Stiles said her name was Moraine Panzo, and she had two kids. Isaac can't move, can't breathe. When she stops shaking, Stiles puts a bag over her head. “I promised not to let it happen again. And it won't.”_ )

Isaac wonders if Stiles takes his glasses off when he looks in the mirror.

Probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> *spoilers* IF YOU WANT TO READ HAYESGENERATIONS'S FIC, DO NOT READ *spoilers*
> 
> At some point Isaac is captured, the rest of the pack think he is dead, and he is tortured (sort of). The rest of the pack blames Stiles, whose plan went awry, and Derek breaks up with him, blaming him for Isaac's "death." Isaac is eventually found to be alive, and Stiles and Derek (presumably) get back together. Stiles is not, however, rid of his guilt. 
> 
> *end spoilers*
> 
> TRIGGERS:
> 
> Stiles kills a woman hunter and there is blood.


End file.
